


TLC

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, hurt everybody basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got a bedridden brother and an angel with a bullet wound in his gut to take care of. Naturally, he catches the flu. Because that's just how his life works.</p><p>Post 8x21 fic. I think EVERYBODY deserves some cuddles after this episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TLC

Dean’s got a lot on his plate, what with two invalids under the same roof who need caring for and nobody else to help him to do it.

Sam’s fever, worsened by the trip, needs to be closely watched. At any second it could spike and, for all Dean knows, end his brother’s life right there, right now. He keeps a pail of cool water at his bedside and four buckets of ice at the ready in the deep freeze.

Though he hates to admit it, Cas is by far his larger concern, if only because his affliction is less familiar in shape.  The ride back had been harrowing. What little amassed energy which lent Castiel coherency while Dean dragged him into the car had dissipated within a few miles of road, transformed into stuttered grunts of pain and muttered Enochian phrases and little flashes of blue light which, sighted in the rearview mirror, made Dean’s heart jump into his throat. He’s half shocked when they arrive back and he opens the door to the backseat to find an alive, if unconscious, Castiel cradled in his brother’s shaking arms. He honestly hadn’t expected him to survive the ride. But then again, he always was a tough son of a bitch, and Dean breaths a silent prayer of thanks to his angel for sticking out one more night.

A day of sleep regains him his capacity for English speech (though he seems reluctant to exercise it, no matter what information Dean tries to pry from him), but everything else takes a downward turn. Cas’ stomach festers, leaving Dean with a seeping mess of bandages to change and another fevered forehead to mop. It’s been a while since he’s gone a straight 48 hours without sleep, but with Cas needing the use of his bed and Sam moaning in his own room and anything and everything ready to go wrong it’s not like he can afford the luxury. He muddles by, for the first few days at least.

Well, stress breeds sickness after all, and he’s not even sure if what he feels qualifies as stress anymore, so much as a perpetual state of violent dread. So when on the morning of the third day back Dean collapses into a chair, his legs shaking too hard from the chills to support him, all he can think is

_Fucking figures._

“Dean, are you alright?” Sam asks, reaching upward with a frail hand towards Dean’s sweaty forehead. He swats the hand away easily and tightens his jaw as he realizes that a kitten might win a fight against his brother now, who only a few months ago could have easily ripped a vamp’s head off with nothing but muscle and fingernails.

“I’m fine, Sammy.” He resists the urge to add _just a little tired is all_ because what’s the use of worrying Sam? Nothing he can do about it. Dean’s just gotta push through.

“You’re not,” Sam replies, but his voice is weak and he’s fallen asleep before he can protest further, and Dean hobbles down the hall to check on Cas, hoping that the soup on the stove hasn’t boiled over yet. So what if he needs to stop once or twice to lean his head against the wall as black spots overtake his vision? He’s felt worse from dehydration, for god’s sake. He’s good.

At least Castiel seems a little improved today. Dean breathes a sigh of relief about that, which he soon wants to take back as he resumes Sam’s pestering.

“You need sleep, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, when don’t I?” Dean tries to grin, but finds it hard to force the muscles to move as he watches another drop of disturbingly human red blot through the fresh bandages. “I’ve survived on less. I’m fine.” The words taste chalky in his mouth and he swallows hard, hoping to hold back the bile until he gets a chance to run to the bathroom. _Man up, Winchester, you’ve treated wounds ten times more disgusting than this._

“Your body is over 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Your pupils are dilated and you are perspiring an abnormal amount for this room’s ambient temperature. Unless you were running a marathon before you came to check on me.” Even in his weakened state, Cas manages to get the sarcasm across loud and clear. “You’re sick, Dean, and more to the point, you’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

“Haven’t you noticed? You’re taking up the whole thing, buddy.” Dean chuckles, which despite a valiant opposing effort turns into a coughing fit.

“I’m being serious. You’ll be no good to Sam and me if you manage to drop dead of exertion before either of us.”

“Jesus, Cas, don’t be so melodramatic. I-“ _I’m good, I swear_ gets swallowed up by another round of coughing. When he looks up, Castiel is eyeing him with reproach.

“Look,” he says defensively, “My back’s getting too old for the couch, alright? It’s not like I’d get much sleep there anyways. And I’ve pulled through much worse with a lot more on my shoulders. Trust me, I can handle this. And-“ _And if I go to sleep now, I might wake up to a dead body where Sam used to sleep, or Jimmy’s empty, decomposing vessel in my bed, and I can’t… I can’t._

Cas probably would have argued more, but Dean’s gorge rises violently and he manages to choke out a harried, “I think Sam’s calling,” before running to the bathroom to spill his guts into the toilet. It’s not like Cas is in any position to run after him, after all.

When he’s finished, he lays his head against the lip and savours the cooling of the porcelain against his skin and just _breathes_ , for the first time since he’s gotten back. He figures he’s earned that much. He wakes up two hours later with the imprint of tile on his cheek, throws up once more, and goes to check on Sammy.

 It’s not until he staggers back to the kitchen for a glass of water to wash out his mouth that he realizes he’s forgotten the soup. He doesn’t have the energy to clean it up though, so he just turns off the heat and resigns himself to a stinking pile of vegetables to mop up in a few days, once whatever this bug is has worn off a bit.

It’s unfortunate that the soup has other plans for him. As he turns, his foot slips in the liquid and he goes down, _hard_. The impact of his head against the concrete (he’ll wonder woozily later which stupid Men of Letters fucker decided concrete was a good flooring for a kitchen anyway) sends a shower of sparks across his vision which just as suddenly become a wave of darkness, and he’s unconscious before he even realizes he’s fallen.

He awakes to find himself propped up against another warm body and a gasping noise in his ear. His head drops backwards and his nose is now buried in a tangled mess of brown hair.

“Cas?” he mouths into the neck which cradles him. His cracked lips scratch the skin there. “What-?”

“I heard the crash,” Castiel wheezes out. “You… fell.”

Dean manages to open his open his eyes a little more. He’s covered in bits of carrots and slimy broth. Luckily, his stomach’s got nothing left to give, though it tries its darndest to heave what little remains up anyways.

With a great effort, he sits all the way up and takes his weight off of Castiel’s body. The angel gasps, grateful for the relief. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, man,” Dean says. The words sound distant, echoing  in his skull.

“Would you have preferred me to leave you to drown in cold soup?” He catches a twinkle in Castiel’s eye. It’s the best thing he’s seen in months and he almost wants to press his face back into the crook of his neck, get a little closer to that warmth in his eyes because Dean is so fucking _cold_ , cold all over, and he doesn’t remember when he started shaking again but he’s shaking now, shaking so hard that it knocks the glitter right out of Castiel’s expression.

“We’re getting you to bed. _Now_.” His voice leaves no room for argument, but Dean’s a stubborn fucker like that.

“Told you, not enough beds…”

“Sam’s got a king. You can both fit there easily.”

“But what if…” Dean knows he’s got a good argument, he’s just so tired, it’s hard to get it across. A few more aborted attempts later he finally manages to mumble out, “What if you’re gone?” Castiel’s breathing hitches at the childish whine in his voice. “What if… what if I wake up, and you’re not there?” He’s vaguely aware that he might not be saying these things without the delirium and possible concussion, but right now everything’s fuzzy and muddled and he can’t help the desperation in his voice.

“I promise, I’ll still be here.”

“You might not be,” Dean breathes. He honestly can’t tell if the liquid on his face is broth or brine at this point.

Castiel pauses, considering, then before Dean can protest further, he’s dragged an arm beneath both of Dean’s and hoisted them both to their feet. “If you’re so worried, then I have a solution.”

Dean doesn’t remember much of their trip to Sam’s room, only that when they get there both Cas and him are panting like dogs and neither is sure who’s supporting whom anymore.

Sam, only half awake, glances at the pair through glassy eyes. “What’s going on?”

“We’re sharing,” states Cas, and after pulling back the blankets he dumps Dean beside his brother. He crawls in on Dean’s opposite side, sandwiching him in the middle, before pulling the quilts over all three of them.

Before Dean can so much as open his mouth, Cas says, “We’re both here beside you, if one of us needs your help. Is that enough? Do you think you can sleep now?” The comfort of the soft mattress makes it hard to form an argument to the contrary, so Dean just nods his head lazily in Cas’ direction.

“And if _you_ need help, one of us can take care of you.” Dean scoffs, but he doesn’t quarrel, and Castiel’s expression softens. “Sleep,” he whispers, and brushes his fingertips over Dean’s forehead, an echo of a gesture from long ago. There’s no instant healing (hell, Cas hasn’t got enough juice to heal himself), but it’s comfort nonetheless, and Dean leans into the touch.

“I was joking about the slumber party, you know,” he mutters with a smile playing over his lips.

“Go to sleep, Dean.” And he does, with his body curled in Cas’ direction and his hand resting on the mattress by Sam’s hip, close enough to feel the warmth of his body on the fabric.

By morning his fever is almost broken. When Dean wakes up, he finds Sam has rolled onto his stomach and his hand is across Dean’s waist. Which is slightly less unexpected, but only slightly, than the armful of angel tucked tightly into his chest, who smiles and says _good morning_ like there’s nothing odd in their positioning. And honestly, Dean can only assume he’s the one who got them there in the first place so he has no right to complain, and he’s not _quite_ past the woozy stage yet so he doesn’t feel the need to out of pride. With so many limbs wrapped up around him, he feels warm for the first time in days.

“How do you feel?” Cas asks, his voice rumbling deep against Dean’s chest.

“Fine,” he replies, and you know what?

For the first time in days, it’s not a lie.


End file.
